


Something you do best

by bayerhoffer



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: Angst, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 20:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13748424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayerhoffer/pseuds/bayerhoffer
Summary: Your hands are shaking, Norma Bates. What do you think of that?





	Something you do best

What are you thinking of, Norma Bates, when you track the net of cracks on the ceiling with your eyes, ingraining it in your mind in smallest details and clutching at the fading thought of some day, one day, re-whitening it all over again? Or when you run your fingers through the dark hair, soothing your child with such natural, but empty, impassive maternal gesture?

> _‘Tell me the truth. Is he dangerous?’  
>  __‘_ Of course _not.’_

You know you’re right, your little boy isn’t dangerous. A gigantic, throbbing lump is stuck deep in your throat, and you’re scared. Whoever it is here with you now, it’s  _not_ your little boy.

Chaotic thoughts tangle with one another, fighting. In yet another torturous effort you’re trying to understand when he changed so much, but ironically, you can’t even remember him growing up. It just so happened that one day you saw him towering over yourself and realized you actually had to reach out quite a bit to stroke his brown fringe off his clear, transparently blue eyes; it just so happened that one day he wasn’t stepping on your feet anymore and started to lead you in a dance instead. When did you get so used to resting your head on his shoulder? Probably the same moment you got used to thinking of him as of always and forever yours. But then, you already know the bad news.

Your little boy slips away sometimes, leaving his eyes gleam with something distant, something completely indifferent. You can bear anything, but not his indifference. You’ll walk to whichever lengths you need to keep him safe and yours if it helps, but it won’t, really. He  _is_ yours. Your little boy is losing himself, because he loves you too much.

_Well, that’s gonna take a shitload of whitewash_. One long crack splits the space. Then another one, and another one. You shut your eyes tight, nearly forgotten tears run down to your temples, but you still can see. The white, broken in thousands, millions of cracks. That’s you, cracking and shattering into pieces, Norma Bates. What do you think of  _that_?

You don’t. You don’t even know how to care for yourself, only for him. And honestly, you’ve already decided. Whoever it is hiding behind a copy of your own ice-blue eyes, whoever is holding you down, breathing you in greedily and thumping you into the bed, it’s not your little boy, which means you  _can’t_  allow him to come back now. You’re feeling badly hurt and even worse betrayed, but what does it matter? Your boy, he’s so sensitive, he won’t be able to handle that. You have to protect him. Story of your life. You’re still having nightmares about that day in the forest when he tried to kill himself. Well, now you have something new to have nightmares about. Didn’t you want some changes in your life?

You keep holding your child and stroking his sweaty hair when it’s over, while you, so numb and exhausted, you’ve already thought of a place to hide your torn skirt for a while, before you can shove it to the garbage. Why, you’ve even chosen clothes to bring for your son, as his own are, obviously, a mess. You’ve always been the one to make sure he looks superb, haven’t you? You arrange things in his dresser, you know every piece like the back of your hand.

Well, are you able to get up and iron a shirt for him? Hell yes, you are. You’ve been through much worse.

And while he’s not with you yet, and his eyes are glaring with cold, empty stare, you’re going to go to the bathroom, you’re going to run the water so it roars and the old pipes shake and rattle through the whole house, and you’re going to let out a scream. Bursting your throat from the inside, it will come at last, a raving, ugly scream. And then the tears. You’ll cover your mouth with both hands, but they’ll still break through with uncontrollable sobs, leak in between your helpless little fingers. Your hands are shaking, Norma Bates. What do you think of  _that_?

> _‘Have you any idea what it's like, being raped by someone you love?’_

Maybe you’ll throw up right into the sink. Quite possibly, you’ll even get wasted later just so it happens. Somehow, it reminds you of purification, though let’s be honest, isn’t it a bit funny to speak of anything pure in your regards? You unbutton the blouse, but can’t bring yourself to look in the mirror. You hate it when bad things become real. Real, like the burn mark you have. Like bruises that you can almost feel appear on your shoulders. There’s still the sense of a rough grip on your thighs, and  _goddammit_ , you cry again. An ugly, shameful cry. But not for too long, no. You can’t  _afford_  too long, just like that first day in town that welcomed you with violence, as if your shitty life caught up with you and threw you a good punch. That day you shoved your crying as far as you could and did everything you had to do, for your son.

For your son, you’ll wash your face and try and do something with your hair. Honestly, it’s an awful idea to whip them up with wet hands, but it’s not until it’s done, that you realize that. You curse, and jerk the towel off its hook, and get so furious at it all of a sudden, that you fling it on the floor – and then you pick it up and put back on the hook where it belongs, because ordinary, normal people keep their bathrooms in proper order. You want to be ordinary and normal, that’s why you’re always keeping everything in order. Still, you don’t dare to take a look in the mirror. If you don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. It’s easier to scratch it from your memory like that. Will you have enough time for this before your boy comes to sleep in your bed? Every hour counts. Tick tock.

He comes to his senses when you’re brushing his hair, clutches at your hand, blinking, and you feel like you’re drowning in fear – not for yourself, for him. He’s so helpless.

_‘Did I black out again?’_

_‘Not for long. Everything’s alright, honey.’_

He looks around and frowns. You know how dangerous these thoughts can be.

_‘What did I do?’_

You struggle to swallow.  _There’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen, you could drink it at a gulp, then go to the bathroom, shove fingers down your throat and_ … Your lips twitch in a weak smile.

_‘Nothing, sweetheart. Just… blacked out, sat on a couch for like three hours. Knocked down a glass of juice on yourself, so I had to change your shirt.’_

He immediately looks down, pressing his palm against his chest to feel the fabric, and somewhat awkwardly tries to check if he’s still wearing the same trousers or if he had to go through an embarrassment of being changed into the fresh ones. But hey, you made sure to zip up his fly and tighten his belt. You truly are an amazing mother.

_‘Thank you, Mother.’_

He leans towards you to give you a kiss, and you turn your cheek to him. You two look like a perfectly decent family, it’s only that your eyes are scanning the room, looking for means of escape, just in case. Then again, admit it, you’re not serious, Norma Bates. You almost fail to contain a hysterical little giggle, thinking how conveniently you didn’t get off the pill just yet. That – that is what your life feels like. What do you think of  _that_?

_‘You know, Norman, I think we really should re-whiten the ceiling’_  you say with as much cheer and enthusiasm as you can fake, just to say something.

And you smile, oh, you smile. That, Norma Bates, is something you do best.


End file.
